


Pilots Under Glass

by finnemoreshusband



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:49:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finnemoreshusband/pseuds/finnemoreshusband
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU.  Martin is a miniature model of a pilot in a small museum that's about to go out of business.  Arthur is a tour guide who thinks all the exhibits are brilliant, but has a special fondness for a particular one.  No one knows that things come alive at night in the museum, until someone stays behind to say one final goodbye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. As If Talking To An Old Friend

**Author's Note:**

> I have like... no idea where this idea came from. I was in the middle of writing chapter 9 of Medication for Sorrow and my brain just said, "nope you're gonna write this now" so I did. This isn't an extremely long story, but I hope it'll be at least a little enjoyable.
> 
> Edit: I've recently made some corrections to grammar and punctuation and stuff. Formatting has been prettied up as well.

The sign out front read _Fitton Aviation Museum _,__ but it didn't look much like a museum at all. It just looked like a very big, very old house with a sign in front of it. But it was a museum, and had been very popular in its time.

Families from all over the area would bring their children to marvel at the portraits of famous pilots framed along the walls, the small parts of early aircrafts displayed upon dark wooded pedestals, and the small-scale scenes of planes and crews spread out on tabletops. Teenagers would bring their sweethearts because it was a quaint, quiet, and inexpensive way to spend the afternoon.

But for the past year, things had slowed down so much that it was becoming hard to keep the business going. Bigger and better museums had popped up all over the place; worth the distance and cost because they were full of full-scale planes suspended from ceilings and theatres showing 3-D films, not faded old photos and rusted motors.

But for now the place wasn't quite in the red, and Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, owner and manager, refused to let her little business die. Her son, Arthur, who doubled as a tour guide, had no idea they were doing so poorly. He loved his job, loved talking about planes and teaching people about them, even though he didn't actually know all that much. The patrons could read the little plaques, after all, and plaques were always right.

Their biggest attraction was a small propeller which, unlike most things in museums, was allowed to be touched. One could have their photo taken with it and then give it a spin for good luck. Arthur spun it every day as he left work, but it wasn't his favourite piece in the museum.

The few people they did get to come through would ogle at the photos and use their phones to snap pictures of the panoramas.

Hardly anyone ventured to the cold corner where two tiny pilot figures sat on viscose grass next to a die-cast monoplane. The glass that locked them in added no allure, and people passed it by with barely a thought.

But not Arthur. He knew the three figures in the case were all mismatched, that none of them really belonged together, but that was what made them a set. The plane wasn't nearly as old as it tried to look, literally a children's toy bought at a convenience store in Arthur's childhood. Though both the pilots were hand painted, one was older than the other, having been a toy from the 1940s. He was made of wood and some of his uniform had rubbed away, but still recognisable as was a pilot. The other was not only smaller but more fragile, made of porcelain and already cracked down the left side. He held his cap in front of him, looking almost bashful, possibly because of the bright orange hair.

This was Arthur's favourite display because these were his contributions to the museum. His toy plane, his wooden pilot he'd found at a flea market shortly after starting to work as a tour guide, and his porcelain pilot he'd made himself just last year in that art class his mum had let him take. And he didn't mind that other people didn't seem to notice it, because he loved it and that was all that mattered.

Yes, he loved everything in the museum. He loved all the plastic people in the small-scales and he loved all the motors and gears.  
But he especially loved the contents of that glass case.

Sometimes, when business was particularly slow, Arthur would stand by the display and talk, as if talking to an old friend. He used to talk to his toys when he was young (and not so young) but this was different, somehow.

What Arthur and Carolyn didn't know was that each night, after they locked up and went home, all the little people (and the odd dog or cat) figures came alive.

They would interact with each other, playing games and telling jokes to pass the time until morning came and they became still again. Some even had wagons they could be pulled around in.

Then, of course, there were the two pilots under glass. The only two in the whole museum to be contained, trapped.

Douglas, the wooden one, didn't mind it so much. He would stand and stretch himself and maybe walk around for a bit, as their repository was quite large and allowed for a good bit of movement.

But the other, Martin, stared out at the others, watching as they laughed and played, practically unaware of him and his companion.


	2. The Only Thing He Hated More Than Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this might end up slightly longer than three chapters? It won't go over five though, I don't think...

As nighttime finally came, darkness filled the museum. The only lights were the small LEDs that lined a few of the displays. Just enough light for the now-awake-and-breathing figures to see what they were doing. Just enough light for Martin and Douglas to see just how trapped they were.

Martin stood and put his hat on. He wished he'd been made with it on, or made with a different color hair, but there was nothing he could do about it. The hat now sat on his head and hid most of the bright locks.

He stood near the glass, arms crossed, as he watched the others run and laugh. The glass wasn't thick enough to spare him from the sounds of their merrymaking. "Why do they get to be free?" he asked. "Why are they out there and I'm stuck in here."

Douglas let out a long, deep sigh. "You've been asking those same questions every night since you got here. Doesn't it get old after a while?"

"It's not fair," Martin whined. He put his hand against the glass, the closest he could get to being with everyone else. "I just want to know what it's like. You were out there once, Douglas. How did it feel to be free?"

"I've been in this case for years, as long as I've been in this museum. I hardly remember."

"You may not have been free here, but you were at one point," Martin argued. "You were a toy, someone played with you during the day, and then you'd come alive at night and talk to all the other toys. It must have been amazing."

Douglas did remember. He remembered belonging to a child. A little girl named Judith. Originally he'd been given to her slightly older brother, but was cast aside in favor of other playthings. But Judith picked him up and made him one of her own, her favourite, in fact, among all her toys. She had some other toys (paper dolls, rag dolls, a slinky), but she took the funny little pilot doll with her everywhere. That is, until she grew up, and Douglas was handed from antiques shoppe to antiques shoppe until he finally landed in this museum and, in his brittle state, placed in the glass next to the monoplane.

"It was alright."

"Oh, I hate it in here." Martin banged both hands, now tight fists, against the glass walls. How he wished he could break the glass. But then, of course, everyone's secret would be out. He wanted freedom but not at the cost of everyone else's.

Douglas had told him stories about toys and figures who were spotted on the move or constantly in a different position. Burned to exorcise the demon who possessed them, or smashed to pieces to eradicate the threat.

He'd take the risk if the consequences would only affect him, but he couldn't do that to any of the others. He didn't know them but it wasn't their fault he was stuck in this glass box.

"But what was it like..." Martin started, "to have someone love you? To be held and... cherished by someone? I'd do anything to feel that. But I'll be stuck here until this place finally goes under, and after that I'll probably sit in storage or be tossed away." He looked at the crack down his side. The only thing he hated more than glass was porcelain, because even if he could be free someday, he was fragile. One small mistake and he would shatter.

"You might have that someday," Douglas insisted. "You're barely a year old, you've got plenty of time."

"The first year is the most crucial." Martin didn't know how he knew it, it was just instinct. An instinct they all had. After a year, they were fully mature, and the rest of their long lives were to be spent making someone happy. "I'll go into storage. Or I'll be sold to someone who'll just place me on a shelf and leave me to collect dust."

"That's an honourable gig, though."

"But I don't want that! I don't want... to be a figure. Why can't I be real?"

Douglas stared at him. Martin's complaining was not new to him, but this certainly was. All he'd ever talked about was freedom, getting out of their case. But this was something he'd never expressed before. Something considered taboo among toys. "What?"

"It isn't fair. I want to be out there, walking around with people, Douglas. I want to be alive during the day, to see the sun for more than a second before I'm gone. I'm tired of this permanent nocturnal state, waking up with vague memories of people walking by. I want to know the Voice."

Another taboo, this one mostly just between them. The Voice was something they both experienced in their daytime dreams. Douglas wasn't all that bothered by it, having experienced Voices all his life. Judith was the first, and he'd almost learned to remember what she'd said during the day, but that was about the time they were separated. Each Voice had to be listened to carefully if one ever hoped to recall it perfectly. Very few are able to do it successfully.

But Martin had only experienced one. One Voice that came to him almost every single day, and although he couldn't remember its words upon waking, he knew it was the sweetest, most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

"You never will." Usually Douglas wasn't so blunt, choosing instead to joke and tease. But this was a serious issue. If Martin tried too hard to hear the Voice, he might get lost in his dream and never wake up. And he was obsessive enough that it might happen. "You know what could happen."

"Yes, of course I know." That instinct again. "But what is the point of all this if I can't do what I was meant to? Surely being forever lost in a dream would be better than waking up to this for the rest of my life."

"Am I really such awful company?"

"That's not what I meant."

Though Douglas tired of Martin's complaining, and Martin wished Douglas could just agree with him for once, they had become friends in their time together. What else were they to do? At least they had one thing in common to bring them together.

"What do you think it'd be like to actually fly a plane?" Martin asked.

Douglas hummed. "I don't know."

"I bet it'd be... magical."


	3. The Voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like the story is all finished and everything, I've just been debating if I want to post it or not, because it's not quite as good as I thought it would be. The final two chapters will go up sometime throughout the day I guess.

**I**

Arthur couldn't believe what he was hearing. It had to be a joke. Only, his mother wasn't one for jokes. Not like this. She wouldn't joke about shutting down the museum.

Carolyn hated to see her son so crushed. It was why she'd waited so long to tell him. But tomorrow was the final day of operation for the Fitton Aviation Museum. So when he ran out of the house, she knew where he was going.

 

**II**

Almost as soon as leaving the house Arthur felt terrible. He wasn't normally a shouter, especially not toward his own mum. He decided to apologise as soon as he got home. But he had to go to the museum now.

He walked the three short blocks between home and business without much trouble. It was dark but not enough that he couldn't make out the path in front of him. And of course he could see the small spotlight in the distance (however short) that illuminated the sign in front of the museum.

 

**III**

While Douglas hummed a happy tune, Martin was sulking in the farthest corner of his case. He had his knees drawn up to his chest, deep in the throes of loathing. He loathed everything. The glass. The darkness. The sounds of the others enjoying themselves. Douglas's humming. The crack in his side.

He ran a hand over the crack, interrupted when he saw a shadow pass by the window behind him.

"What was that?"

"Hm?" Douglas asked, humming coming to a stop. "What was what?"

Martin followed the shadow around to the front windows. "Someone's... someone's coming in..."

He jumped up and ran to the other side of the case, tapping on the class to get everyone's attention. But they never noticed him, so why should they now?

The door opened, bell tinging. The noise was enough to make the other figures pause, but they didn't have enough time to get back to their assigned positions. They all stayed perfectly still and silent, hoping whoever it was wouldn't notice they were out of place.

The lights flicked on and Martin was able to get a good look. A _person_. A real person.

"Hello?" the man called out. "Is someone there? The museum's closed, you know. Though, it really doesn't matter much anymore..."

The sound reached Martin's ears and his mouth fell open. He knew that sound, that voice.

"Douglas..." he whispered.

"I know," Douglas answered quietly.

Martin watched, full of awe, trying to take in as much of the man as he could. He was it. The owner of the Voice. That was him. The man put his hands on his hips and looked around.

Before he could stop himself, Martin knocked against the glass.

"Martin!" Douglas warned.

The man looked in their direction, again calling, "Hello?"

"He'll notice the others," Martin reasoned, though it wasn't really about them.

"You'd rather have him notice you?"

"Obviously," he said as he tapped the glass again, a frantic movement of his fist.

 

**IV**

Arthur wasn't really scared of the noise. It sounded like maybe an animal had gotten trapped somewhere. He couldn't let a poor animal go unhelped.

He moved toward the source of the sound, and when he thought he found it, he rubbed his eyes. Maybe he was dreaming? He squatted down so the glass case was at eye level, and stared at the tiny pilot who he was sure hadn't been left in that position.

And then a tiny arm moved, thumping a tiny palm against the glass.

"Oh!" Arthur jumped back a bit.

The little hands stilled, and the pilot's eyes widened as Arthur studied them.

 

**V**

Martin stared at the man, waiting for something, anything.

"Are you... alive?"

Martin grinned and shouted, "Yes! Yes, I am!"

"Wow... but you're..."

"Oh no..." Martin suddenly realised what he'd done. He'd revealed himself, and probably put everyone else in danger. He turned his back on the man, slumping against the glass wall.

"Are you alright?"

Martin squeezed his eyes closed and tried to think of what to do. How many times had he wished for this to happen? But he didn't know what to do now that it had.

His panic only heightened when he heard a clicking noise, then a creak.

He looked up. The glass roof was open.

The man stuck his hand into the case, palm up.

Martin looked up at him, scared.

"It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you."

He glanced down at the hand. He knew he shouldn't. The best defense was to just stay still and act like nothing had happened.

But he'd already blown that strategy. So he couldn't really make things any worse for himself.

He took a careful step onto the hand, and fought to keep his balance as he was raised out of the case.

Out! He was actually out.

"I'm Arthur," the man said.

"Martin."

"How are you... I mean... how..."

Martin shrugged. "I don't know. None of us know."

"There are others?"

Martin winced. "Maybe?"

Arthur cocked his head a bit. "I won't tell anyone, if that's what you're worried about. Well, maybe mum, it's hard to keep secrets from her, but she'll just think I was playing pretend."

"I... can't believe it's you..."

"What? You know me?"

"Sort of," Martin admitted. "I know you're voice. I hear it almost every day."

"Wow."

"Wow." Martin agreed. "What... are you doing here after hours?"

Arthur felt his excitement fade a bit as a frown found its way to his lips. "The museum's closing. I just... came to say goodbye."

"Oh." Martin felt the disappointment too. He'd just gotten to meet Arthur (the Voice!) and now he'd be packed away. "I see."

"Yeah. Tomorrow's the last day. Mum's already sold most of the things."

"What happens to me?"

"Well you're not really part of the museum," Arthur explained. "I mean, you are, but you're not being sold. You're mine."

"Yours?"

"Yep." Some of Arthur's cheeriness returned. "I made you. Well, I picked you off a shelf and painted you, and put you in this heated thing and when you came out you were all shiny. And I was so excited, but... I dropped you. That's how you got that," He pointed to the crack winding down Martin's side. "And Mum didn't want you to break completely, so she had me put you in the case with my other things."

Martin suddenly felt a warmness in his chest. "You... made me?"  
"Mm-hmm. You don't remember?"

"No. I mustn't have been alive until you finished me. Maybe that's how it works..."

"This is brilliant!" Arthur exclaimed suddenly.

"Is it?"

"Of course it is! Even if the museum closes, I'll still have you, and we can be friends and talk all day."

Martin shook his head. "I'm not alive during the day. Well, I am, a bit, but it's like... I'm asleep."

"Oh. Well we can talk all night then."

"Really?"

"Really."

"So..." Martin wondered. "What now?"

"I don't know. What do you normally do all night?"

"He cries," came another voice.

Martin rolled his eyes. "I do not _cry_ , Douglas. We don't actually have tears. And why are you talking, I thought you wanted-"

"I can't let you have all the fun," Douglas interrupted.

Arthur, finally catching up, exclaimed "Wow, you're both alive?" He looked into the case and saw the wooden pilot looking back up at him, arms crossed. But he looked back to Martin. "Why do you cry?"

"I do not cry! I may... whine. A bit. But it's only because I'm trapped in that stupid case."

Arthur frowned again. "I'm sorry. I didn't know... I just didn't want anyone to break you. Either of you."

"I don't see why it matters," Martin said, sitting in the centre of Arthur's palm. "I'm already broken. What's the point?"

"What happens if you break more?" Arthur asked. All he got was a dark look from both pilots. "Oh..." He felt himself yawn, and covered his mouth with his free hand.

Martin sighed. "Maybe you should go home, Arthur. Get some sleep."

"But I want to stay and talk to you!"

"You said tomorrow's the last day of the museum... so how about we get through that, and then you can take me home with you? And we can talk every night."

Arthur smiled. "Okay." He really was tired. He put little Martin back down in the case.

"But," Martin started... "could you... leave the case unlocked? I just... I'd like to take a look around... I promise to be back in place in the morning."

Arthur considered it. "Sure. Just be careful. Don't get broken."

"I won't."


	4. In The Flower Box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I was not high when I wrote this.
> 
> Well, actually, I can't guarantee that considering the, uh, fog I have to walk through on a daily basis...

A few hours after Arthur left, Martin was sitting on top of the monoplane. He'd climbed on top of it after deciding to get out of the case, but halted when he realised he had no way to get back inside.

Douglas sighed at him. "Will you make your mind up? You haven't got much time left."

"Well it's obvious I'm not leaving," Martin hissed. "I'm just going to sit here and pretend to think about it when really I know I won't go because I'm too afraid."

"Then get down, you're giving me a headache."

"Or are you worried I'll fall off?"

"Hm."

"Fine. I'll go then."

"What?"

Martin stood, balancing himself on the top of the plane. "You heard me. I'm going. It doesn't matter if I get back in the case or not."

"It matters to Arthur."

"No it doesn't. He just said that because he's nice. I don't matter." He could just reach the edge of the glass by stretching his whole body. Once he had a hold of it, he hung there for a minute, before hoisting himself over the edge. The top of the case open and shut with his movement and he dropped down onto the tabletop.

"Look!" he shouted. "I'm looking into the case. This is great. Douglas you should come with me!"

He wanted to, of course he wanted to. But he'd had his freedom. "No. We might be able to get you back inside if I stay."

"What... you'd do that?"

"Martin, I am your friend."

"Oh. Right. Thank you..."

Douglas nodded. "Just be careful."

"I will." Martin insisted.

He looked around, deciding where he should go. He didn't really want to jump down to the floor, because then there really would be no way to get back into the case.

Luckily there was a decorative ledge along the walls, practically level with the table. He stepped onto it, staying as close to the wall as he could. There was plenty of room for him to walk, but he didn't want to risk falling. He gave Douglas a small wave before walking (carefully) on the ledge into another room.

It was dark, no LEDs to brighten it. The only bit of light came from the window, moonlight causing it to sort of glow.

"Window..." Martin whispered to himself. He could have gone out the window by the case, but then Douglas would have seen him. But this one was out of sight. As far as he knew, no one else had gone outside before. Not only was he free, but he'd be the first to go outside.

He reached the window and heaved the latch open, allowing the frame to swing out.

A small breeze flew by him, and the chill filled him with energy.

He stood at the edge, looking out. In front of him was a flower box with a few wilting but still-holding-on flowers. The moon hung low, shining bright and causing the surrounding stars to look a little dim. But it was wonderful.

Another breeze blew, tipping him over the edge and into the manufactured soil in the flower box. "At least I didn't break," he said quietly after inspecting himself.

"Who are you?" came a high voice from behind him.

Martin looked around. "Who are _you_?"

"I asked you first," the voice answered. "And this is _my_ flower box, after all."

He stood, trying his best to stand straight in the soft soil. "My name is Martin."

"Are you a toy?"

Martin pouted. "No. Just a figure, a toy no one can play with. Where are you?"

"Here." A few of the flowers shook, and a faint light radiated from between them.

"Are _you_ a toy?"

"Oh, no, Martin. I'm a fairy."

"Pff. Fairies aren't real."

"Neither are figures who come alive at night."

Martin blinked. "Are you really?"

"Am I really what?"

"A fairy?" Martin clarified. "And what's your name? Why won't you come out?"

The fairy giggled as the flower stems rustled again. As a few began to part, the faint glow became brighter as she stepped out from behind her hiding place. She was just about his height, in a long gown, a white aura pulsating around her. "My name is Theresa. What brings you to my flower box?"

"Do... fairies live in flower boxes?"

"How should I know?" she teased. "What are you running from?"

Martin's eyes widened in surprise. "What? Nothing. I'm not running."

She sighed. "Running, walking, it's all the same. What's got you scared?"

"I'm... I've been... trapped. For so long. And this is my chance. To get out, to see things."

"You don't sound like a man about to live his dream. You sound sad."

"Yes, well..." Martin looked down. "I won't get the whole dream, will I?"

"Why not?"

"Because. I'm a figure. I'll never... I'll never see the sun. I'll never be real."

She frowned in confusion. "Are you sure that's what you want?"

"Of course. It's all I've thought about for as long as I can remember."

"Hmm." She began to circle him.

"What? What _hmm_?"

"I could give you that."

Martin gaped. "You could?"

"Fairy," she pointed to herself.

"Right. Magic and... stuff."

"Right." She winked. "But. Magic comes with a price."

"Oh. I don't... I don't have anything."

She shook her head. "Of course you do. Everyone has something. They just don't always see what it's worth."

"Then what have I got?"

"I can make you real," she stated. "But only for a limited time. You'd get one daytime. One daytime of flesh and blood."

Martin was vibrating with excitement. Could he really? "What do you want?"

"It's not what I want. It's what the magic wants."

"Fine, what does it want, then?"

"The daytime you spend as human will be the last time of waking for you. As soon as the sun goes down, you go back to being a poor, porcelain figure, and you never wake again."

"Do it." The words fell from Martin's lips without his permission. But he found he didn't mind so much. "Do it," he repeated, "make me real. That's what I want."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"There's no going back from this. If you change your mind, I can't help you. Nothing can override a deal once it's been made."

"I don't care, do it, I want it. What is the point of waking times if I spend them locked in a glass case?"

Theresa gave a slight frown, almost pitying, before she began to glow so brightly that everything in Martin's vision faded to white.


	5. Wisps Of A Dream

**I**

Martin woke with a headache, a bright light piercing through his eyelids.

"What?" he said, voice full of grog. He blinked a few times, holing his hand up to shield himself from the sun.

"The sun..." He suddenly found himself breathless.

He stood, a little unfamiliar with the weight of his limbs. There was dirt all over his suit, as he'd woken up on the dewy ground. He brushed himself off and heard footsteps behind him.

"Hello?"

Oh, that voice again. The sun _and_ the Voice, all in one day. Day!

"Arthur!" Martin turned and stared at the man he'd met last night.

"...Martin?"

"Yes, it's me! Look at me, I'm real, I'm human." He took the few steps toward Arthur and turned around modeling his new body.

"How are you... am I going mad?"

"No, no, Arthur, you're not. It's magic."

"Brilliant."

Martin grinned, folding his hands together behind his back. "Oh." He pulled his hands in front of him again, running one over the other. "This is skin? This is what skin feels like?" He reached out and grabbed Arthur's hand, feeling the texture. "Wow."

Arthur giggled.

"What?" Martin dropped Arthur's hands. "What's funny."

"You," Arthur said in the most innocent way. "You're... you're really real. I've got a real friend. I thought I'd dreamt you up..."

"No, I'm..." Martin rewound. "You don't have friends?"

"Not really, no."

"Oh..."

"But now I've got you! And Douglas."

Martin bit his lip, and a loud sound came from his stomach, startling him. "What was that..."

"You're hungry." Arthur giggled again. "I've got some snacks hidden around the museum. Come on."

Martin followed him inside. He honestly didn't think he'd ever go back into the building again. He'd planned on just running. Running, walking, skipping, galloping, frolicking through the outside. Going everywhere he could with the time he had.

But this was good.

He took the pack of biscuits Arthur handed him and took a wary bite. "This is food? Why can't figures eat food? Food is great..."

Arthur smiled some more as he watched Martin eat. "Would you like some coffee? We've got a little kitchen in the back..."

"Some what?"

"I'll show you." Arthur grabbed Martin's hand and led him to the kitchen area. It wasn't much of a kitchen, just a small room with a counter sink, a microwave, and a coffee maker. He made two cups of decaf and gave one to Martin.

Since the biscuits went over so well, Martin was less cautious when he took a sip of the black liquid. It burnt a bit but it was delicious. "I'm going to miss coffee. And biscuits."

"Hm?"

"Oh, erm..." Martin searched for an explanation. "I don't get to stay like this forever. Tonight, I go back to being porcelain."

Arthur's smile shrank a bit. "I'm sorry. But you get this at least, which is brilliant."

"It really is."

Just then they heard the bell ring, telling them someone had come into the museum. Martin looked to Arthur.

"It's just my Mum."

"Arthur," Carolyn's voice rang out through the building, "where've you gone?"

"Just here," Arthur said, dragging Martin back to the front of the building.

"Oh, good, I need-" She stopped for a moment, looking at the stranger trailing close behind her son. "Who's this?"

"This is Martin!" Arthur said, excited. "He's-"

"I-I'm a pilot," Martin interrupted. "I was... in the area, and I passed by and noticed this was an aviation museum, so I stopped in. Your son was just showing me around."

She eyed him up, but only said, "I see. Well, today is our last day in business, so we may start packing things up while you're here. I doubt we'll get anyone else in today."

"Okay, that's fine, I... I don't have anywhere else to be."

 

**II**

Martin spent the morning being shown around the whole museum, looking at all the exhibits, listening to Arthur speak. He couldn't quite get used to the new perspective. Honestly, it unsettled him a bit. But he was enjoying being unsettled.

Arthur told him everything he knew. Everything he thought. Anything that popped into his head eventually found its way to Martin's ears. And he was loving it.

When they got to his case, he felt a small shiver run through him. "Can I..."

"Sure," Arthur permitted.

Martin, with his new fleshy fingers, lifted the lid on the glass case. First he picked up the monoplane, twisting it all around. "I sat on this just yesterday. I was this big." he made a motion with his fingers.

Arthur patted him on the back.

Oh, Martin loved that. Touch. It was so much different than in his usual body. He was warm and soft, and so was Arthur.

After replacing the plane, Martin picked Douglas up, taking care not to damage him. He felt so bad. He'd never get to talk to him again.

"Martin?" Arthur asked, seeing his new friend's face go a bit sad. "You alright?"

"I'm fine. It's just strange, to see him... asleep."

Arthur nodded as Douglas was put back in his spot atop the viscose.

"Ow..." Suddenly Martin felt a small pain in his side. "What was that?"

"What? Are you hurt?"

"I don't know. I didn't think I broke any more last night..."

"Let me see?"

Martin nodded and lifted the side of his uniform up.

"Oh..." Arthur said.

"What? What is it, what's wrong?"

"It's not wrong, exactly," Arthur tried to calm him down. "It's just... well you didn't break any more, but... the part of you that was already broken... it..."

Martin moved a hand down to his side, to feel the line of raised skin, and winced. He twisted his neck to get a better look at the long scar winding down his side. "Oh, the crack. It came with me."

Arthur reached out to feel, but pulled away when Martin cringed again. "Sorry."

"No, it's fine, just..."

"Does it still hurt?"

"No."

"That's good." Arthur stood up again.

They were standing so close now. Martin could feel the heat passing between them. God, did people feel this all the time?

Martin only stepped away when he saw Arthur's mother from the corner of his eye, approaching them with an empty box. "Right. Arthur. I need you to pack away the some of the panoramas. I'll take care of the antique machinery, you just handle the small-scales, alright? More boxes are by my desk."

"Alright, Mum," Arthur agreed as she walked away, presumably to begin her own part of the packing.

"Uh, should I..." Martin stuttered. "Would you like me to help?"

Arthur shook his head, putting a hand on Martin's shoulder. "No, you don't have to."

"I want to. I have this fantastic body, I may as well use it."

"Okay. Thanks."

 

**III**

Martin felt a bit sick as they packed away the panoramas. The scenery didn't matter much. Tiny runways and hangars and planes were easily rolled up in protective wrapping and fit like puzzle pieces into boxes.

It was the people that made him a bit woozy. They were like him, figures. Not quite toys, but still more adored and played with than something made of porcelain. But still, what would happen to them? Would _they_ be put into a glass case? Set upon high, narrow shelves?

Most of the things were packed by the afternoon. And Carolyn had been right, no customers came.

"Well," she said, looking around, "what do you say we call it a day? Close up and get an early dinner."

"Sure," Arthur said, happily and not.

Martin suddenly felt out of place. Well, more out of place. "I'll, er, be on my way then, I suppose."

"No," Arthur said, catching him by the arm. "You should come with us."

Martin felt his cheeks flush (another wonder of his flesh). "I couldn't."

"Do you have other plans?" Carolyn asked.

"No," Martin answered truthfully. "But, I haven't got any money. It's best if I just..."

Arthur frowned, eyes big and pleading. "Please come? I'll cover you."

"You barely know me."

They stared at each other for a minute before Carolyn coughed, drawing their attention to her. "Martin, if Arthur is willing to pay for you, you're welcome to join us. But make up your mind, I'm leaving now. I'll start the car." She walked away from them and exited.

"Please, Martin. You'll get to try more food."

"Alright. Alright, you've convinced me."

Arthur's bright smile only convinced him further that he'd made the right decision. "And then you can come back to my house and we can watch films and eat snacks."

Martin thought about it. He'd really wanted to go exploring. But this... he hadn't expected to _feel_ so much.

He nodded, finding himself unable to say no to Arthur.

 

**IV**

Dinner went well, if a bit awkward. But the food was amazing and completely worth Carolyn's scrutinizing glances.

"What would you like to watch first?" Arthur asked once they were at his house. Carolyn, strangely, hadn't minded so much that Arthur had invited someone he'd just met into her home. But the look on her face said she knew something he didn't.

"It doesn't matter, I don't know any films."

"True. Well, I'll just pick one, and if you don't like it, we can try something else."

"Okay."

They were in the front room, and Martin had taken a seat on the end of the sofa. He watched Arthur put something into a bigish machine and then a picture appeared on the previously dark screen in front of them.

Arthur sat next to Martin, their arms touching, and started the film.

 

**V**

By the time their third movie ended, they were both laying on the sofa, Arthur's head against Martin's chest.

Martin could feel him all over. All heat and weight and wonder.

Conveniently, Carolyn hadn't bothered them all evening.

Arthur moved his head to look at Martin, propping his chin on Martin's chest. "Martin?"

"Yes, Arthur?"

"Would it be okay if I..." He inched a bit closer, his body sliding over Martin's as their faces drew nearer.

Martin sat up a bit to help him, his nod just barely visible.

Their lips met and Martin was on fire. Arthur's lips were soft and slippery and perfect. But. "Arthur," Martin whispered, pulling away as he realised what was happening. "We... can't..."

"I know, it'd be weird, once you go back to being small, but I couldn't help it..."

Martin tried to smile as he brushed a finger over Arthur's cheek.

"But it'll be alright," Arthur reminded him. "Because at least we'll still be able to be friends. We can do this every night." He registered a small change in Martin's demeanor. "Is something wrong?"

"No. Yes. I mean. Arthur, I've done something really, really stupid."

"Tell me. You can tell me."

Martin took a deep breath (breathing was one of the few things that figures shared with real people) before he began telling Arthur everything.

Arthur couldn't help the few tears that tumbled down his cheeks. "Martin."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Arthur. If I had known..."

Their lips came together again, this time hot and fast and Martin could just feel so much, didn't want to ever stop feeling like this.

"Martin," Arthur said, pulling away from the kiss, "you can't... you can't. You have to find a way to fix it."

"I would if I could, but there isn't a way."

"What about Douglas? Can he do anything?"

"No, nobody can. I'm done, Arthur. And I'm so sorry."

Arthur chewed on his lip. "It's... getting dark..."

"I noticed."

"Will you... will you be awake tonight, or does it..."

"I don't think so," Martin said with watery eyes. Tears? Oh, they felt hot and the corners of his eyes stung as the water continued to build up.

Arthur laid his head back on Martin's chest, letting a hand rub gingerly at the spot where he knew Martin's scar was, and Martin ran his fingers through Arthur's hair.

They both wanted to stay awake, really they did. But Arthur hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, too terrified that he'd wake up to find out he'd only dreamt about his pilots coming alive. And Martin had never felt tired before, but he felt it now. It was quite a nice feeling, actually. Who knew flesh required so much energy?

Both of them wanted to stay awake, to see what the night would bring, but in the warmth and comfort of each other, there was really no helping it. They fell asleep before full darkness came.

 

**VI**

Arthur woke in the morning, alone on his sofa. Something hard pinched him in the arm. He sat up, trying to grasp the few wisps of a dream floating through his head.

When he saw what he'd slept on, the dream came back. And how he wished it had all been a dream.

He grabbed the small pilot figurine and set it on the table next to the sofa. He watched it until his mum came in to check on him.

"Did you sleep down here?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Have you been crying?"

"Yeah." Really, what was the use in lying?

"So. What happened with your pilot friend? Did he stay?"

Arthur shook his head, still not looking away from the porcelain figure. "No. He left. Only in town for one day."

She walked next to him and patted his head. "There'll be others, Arthur. Come, I'll make us some breakfast."

"Alright." Arthur watched her go and then again focused all his attention on Martin. What was he going to do now? They'd only had one day together. And he'd have to explain this whole thing to Douglas. "Oh, Martin."

He grabbed the figure and took it with him to the breakfast table. He'd decided he was going to take it with him everywhere. He'd be extra careful, of course, didn't need him breaking any more. But he couldn't let him out of his sight. Just in case.

If Carolyn noticed the resemblance between the mysterious man and the porcelain figure her son kept with him, she never said anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we've reached the end of my (possibly drug-induced?) story.
> 
> If you were expecting a happy ending, I'm sorry.
> 
> Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed it a bit.


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